


The Last Firstborn

by Sayl



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Comic Relief, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fast Cars, Fast and Furious AU, Glenn lives AU, Hapivain Agenda™, Inevitable Top Gear joke references, Lots of Sexy cars, Modern AU, Mystery, Organized Crime, Partners in Crime, Self-indulgent Au cos I love NFS:MW, Street Racing AU, Surprising amount of plot, twin byleths au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sayl/pseuds/Sayl
Summary: Felix declined an easy job at his father's company, Aegis Insurance, in favor of a career as a professional driver at the famed Areadbhar test track. He's the best of the best, trusted to test the fastest, most powerful, most expensive supercars in the country. The only person better than him? His brother.Glenn, however, has a side-hobby when it comes to driving. Moonlighting as a street racer, one day Glenn goes missing, and there's been no progress in the investigation. So Felix decides to take matters into his own hands. He'll become a street racer and face the notorious Blacklist to find his brother.However, turns out that racing on a track and racing on the street are two different worlds altogether. He won't get far alone. But when he meets Byleth, a strange mechanic with a penchant for racing and tracking down information, Felix feels his luck may turn around.Both will find they've signed up for more than they bargained for.--------Self-indulgent Street Racing/Fast & Furious/Need for Speed: Most Wanted AU but with a lot more plot because that's just how I roll and I wanted to do so much more to incorporate FE3H story points into it. No game experience needed to read ofc.
Relationships: Background Yuri LeClerc/Beleth Eisner (twin brother), Felix Hugo Fraldarius/My Unit | Byleth, Glenn Fraldarius/Holst Goneril, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hapi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. One Good Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Mood/Vibes playlist for this fic: [Spotify Link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7B29sr797vJGT6Z5UGXRJG?si=SVRq75PETZySYuJZFJawPA)  
> All Chapter Titles are songs from this playlist.  
> As is the Fic Title.
> 
> Pinterest board for this fic: [Pinterest Board Link](https://pin.it/4DHXMRK)  
> Because I can lol.

**|| Felix ||**

  
  


The roar of eight turbo-charged cylinders fills the cramped cabin of his vehicle, just as loud as one would expect from a car originally designed for the track. Even if this version was a reworked version made to be road-legal, it still had the higher-octave roar of the more stripped-down supercars that the rich and famous spend upwards of a million dollars on to bring it out for a spin about twice a year. The line of pine and cedar that lies just beyond the barrier wall whips by at unthinkable speeds, such a blur it looks as though a painter simply dragged his forearm across a wet canvas.

But Felix’s eyes are on the road ahead, carefully watching for every turn and straightaway that he’s come to learn like the back of his hand over the last few years. In a familiar vehicle, he would dare say he could drive the track blindfolded.

This isn’t a familiar car, however. This is a revamped McLaren Senna, and it’s his job to test how fast it can go around Fodlan’s most famous track: The Areadbhar. The first ten laps allow him to familiarize himself with the controls, the handling, the down-force around each corner that keeps his tires on the asphalt even when he’s turning corners at 150 miles an hour. Currently, he’s on his 4th timed lap, and as his orange eyes glance down at the timer set on the dash, he can see that he’s getting close to breaking the time on his previous run. Last time at this corner, he’d been at about 3:13, he’s currently at a 3:11.

To anyone who didn’t know any better, two seconds seemed inconsequential. Waiting in line for coffee, how many seconds are left on the microwave before it goes off, the length of time it might take to change the channel on the TV. For most people, two seconds was as good as instantaneous.

But out here on the track, two seconds is a lifetime. It’s the difference between first place and last place in some races, when even the greatest drivers may only win their event by fractions of a single second. Two seconds faster at this stage of the lap means that Felix has a good shot at shaving off a few more before he reaches the end. And that’s entirely what his job is. To see just how fucking fast these new cars will go around their track, so that the flashy companies can brag about it at every auto show and on their website and uses it as fodder to jack up the prices of their already insanely expensive supercars.

He couldn’t give a damn about any of that, though. Felix is just in it to drive. For the thrill and adrenaline of speeding down a raceway at up to 200 miles per hour. To test not only how fast the damn cars go, but how much _better_ he gets at driving every single one of them. No one pushes the vehicles to their limits quite like he does, with the least amount of damage afterward. He’s one of the best professional drivers at the Areadbhar Motor Sports Complex, despite being only in his mid-twenties.

Second only to his brother.

  
  


His foot presses further on the gas just slightly, eager to see how much faster he can make it through this round. He feels something vibrate against his hip, realizing it’s his phone. There’s no taking it out, however, not when he sees the speedometer clock up to 196. Diverting any bit of focus could not only sabotage his time, but it could also send him spinning into a wall. It’s only happened to Felix once, he’d prefer not to go through that again.

And of course, it was the car’s fault. Or so he’ll always claim. He refuses to drive anything made by Ford ever again after the inexcusable incidents with the GT leading up to that wreck.

Whoever is calling can wait another 45 seconds, as that’s precisely how long Felix thinks it will take him to reach the finish line. And he’s close. By the end, he’s cut about 3.2 seconds off his last lap time. A successful enough point to end on for now while he takes a break to let the pit crew refuel and likely swap out the worn tires. Striding back towards the complex, he pulls his cell out of his pocket and checks the notifications. There’s a missed call, which he expected, but there’s also a voicemail, which is unusual, considering the very short and abrasive recording Felix has set up to answer said voicemail. But the caller ID identifies that it’s Glenn. Felix quirks a brow. It wasn’t like his brother to leave a message if he called, knowing Felix would call back if he did. Most of their electronic correspondence was done over texting. Brushing it off, he opens his voicemail and lifts the phone to his ear to let it play.

  
  


It’s mostly indiscernible sounds, like the rustling of fabric and other various sorts of background noise, for a moment Felix thinks his brother has simply butt-dialed him somehow. He’s about to close it out, however, something about it is strange. He can hear slightly labored breathing, but it’s a bit distant, and he swears he hears his name. Then after a moment, the breathing is clearer, and the voice a little louder, but the reception is terrible. The audio keeps cutting out.

  
  


_“—ick m—up. Ther— — — —ng fucked u— — —ing on. I’m— —na’s—tique—”_

  
  


The message ends abruptly. Felix lowers his phone again, scrutinizing the screen as if that will answer any questions. He tries dialing Glenn to check in and see what the message was about, but there’s no answer. It doesn’t even ring. His phone is either dead or off. A grunt of frustration leaves him. It’s not like Glenn to be this way, and though Felix isn’t one to assume the worst, he won’t ignore it either.

For a moment, he considers calling Rodrigue…but immediately it seems like a bad idea. It opens up the opportunity for the man to ask too many questions, to spiral into worst case scenarios and go into a panic. Additionally, if Glenn called _Felix_ and did not call their father, then there’s likely a good reason. Perhaps it’s related to that less-than-legal hobby of his. Wouldn’t be the first time. Rodrigue had not been all too happy about both his sons choosing to be professional drivers, even if Glenn’s position as one was only temporary. Who knew what sort fit he’d throw if he knew Glenn’s lead foot and thrill-seeking tendencies weren’t restricted to a controlled track.

[ >>> Felix - 3:17pm ] Is Glenn home?

  
  


It’s the compromise he makes with himself. Rodrigue will answer one way or another. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t just give a simple yes or no.

  
  


[ <<< Old Man - 3:19pm ] He said he had to work today. So I assumed he was with you. At work.

  
  


_Fuck._

  
  


Despite the words being silent on the screen, Felix can still _hear_ that discerning tone that shows he knows something is amiss, but not in the same way Felix does. And somehow, it still feels like Rodrigue’s scrutiny on the matter is more targeted at Felix than at the golden-boy elder son…as usual. As if Felix were the one to tell him that Glenn worked today and then made sure he didn’t show up.

Ugh, but now Glenn is going to have to explain to Rodrigue where he was (or make up another excuse) since Felix had unintentionally outed him for not working today. And Felix is going to have to explain why to his brother. Not a conversation he was looking forward to when he and Glenn always swore to have each other’s backs. But it was just something he’d have to deal with later when he and Glenn both got home. Unfortunately, that conversation didn’t happen.

  
  


Glenn never came home.

  
  


  
  


Three months pass. No one’s heard from or seen any sign of Glenn. Felix would have been the last person to speak for him if he’d answered his phone a minute earlier. It’s a thought that plagues him every day when he’s on that damn track. Any time his phone rings, he immediately pulls it out to see who’s calling. Every time he’s left disappointed by the name on the screen. Anytime it’s an unknown number, he dares to answer rather than blocking it. Every time, it’s another goddamn recording about student loans he doesn’t have or a car warranty he never bought.

The worst part is that he doesn’t know what to _do_. He knows what Glenn was doing, but doesn’t know where he was. He never did. He’d told Felix about his _side job_ before, if you could call street racing a ‘job’, but the details of it had always been withheld. Something about a code he had to follow to get to some goal. Felix didn’t ask, he just agreed to cover for his brother as best he could. He couldn’t blame Glenn for getting a wild hair like this when he was essentially set to inherit the prestigious Aegis Insurance from their father in a few years. He’d be stuck behind a desk insuring the very expensive cars Felix was driving on the Areadbhar. Apparently, the day job at the track wasn’t enough to make up for the inevitable lifetime of paperwork and business meetings ahead of him…or so Felix assumed. The less he knew, the less likely he was to blow Glenn’s cover.

Now he wished he’d _demanded_ every detail from him. Then maybe when the police came in for questioning, he could have offered more than a partial voicemail and a begrudging, “he was driving around the city, I don’t know where.” The only specific detail he could give was Glenn’s car: A bright blue and black Nissan GTR, barely a year old.

He doesn’t mention the racing…Not only to avoid a lecture from Rodrigue, but for fear that if the Police saw Glenn as a _criminal_ , they wouldn’t try so hard to find him. When it was the son of a wealthy and influential businessman, they seemed to give a damn at least.

Not that it helped. Felix has watched enough true crime to know that if you don’t find what you’re looking for in the first 48 hours, chances drop abysmally low of you ever finding it. And of course, police won’t even take a report of a missing person seriously until 24 of those hours have already passed.

It’s been almost 2400 hours.

So many of Glenn’s things had been taken in the investigation, it left his room eerily bare…As if his brother’s very existence was disappearing bit by bit. When there was nothing left to take and no more leads to pursue, they’d been given the update of: “We’re keeping feelers out for any leads and have him posted on the missing person’s bulletin.”

Rodrigue seemed to accept it, disappointed, but resigned.

Felix was _pissed_. Because he knew what that meant.

They might as well have said, “If he turns up we’ll let you know, but he’s probably dead, and we have other things to do.” And their father was just going to let them handle it like that.

It wasn’t an answer he was willing to accept. If they weren’t going to put forth any more effort to find his brother…

Then he’d fucking do it _himself_.

—

Three days after that most recent visit from the detective, Felix takes the day off and waits impatiently for Rodrigue to head to work. Even this early in the morning, it feels as if he’s been waiting for hours. But eventually, he hears the familiar rev of his father’s Audi as he pulls out of the needlessly long driveway, the whir of the automatic gate grinding before he pulled out onto the street.

It’s not until he hears the gate close that Felix dares to leave his spot at the bar-top kitchen counter, barely-touched and now-cold coffee left behind. Impatient footsteps carry him across spotless tile floors and back up the grandiose stairs. A sharp right turn rather than left leads him to his brother's empty room…one he has to walk by every damn day to get to his own. Closing the door didn’t really help.

Felix hates how it looks now. It’s pristinely clean. There’s no piles of laundry, no empty can of that vile energy drink he likes left sitting by his computer, no _computer,_ no ruffled bedsheets to indicate the bed has been slept in at all in the last three months. The only sign that Glenn had ever even been here was the smattering of tiny holes in the drywall surrounding the dartboard by his closet. The one kind of game Glenn had been terrible at. Bad enough that he bought a dartboard to practice on in his room so that one day he might be able to beat Felix at that, too.

He blinks away the reverie, there’s no time to waste on reminiscing. There’s no _reason_ to reminisce at all. Because his brother is still out there, and still alive. He knows it. And the more time he wastes, the harder it’s going to be to keep that hope.

There’s not much left to look through. The police didn’t leave much behind in their sweep. And they still held onto most of it as ‘evidence’ that would likely collect dust in the back of a dingy room with a million other boxes just like it.

Felix begins to dig around, eyes scanning every area while trying not to disturb anything too much that it would be obvious he’d been here. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, but it doesn’t matter. If the damn police couldn’t find any clues in his phone or computer or notebooks left out on the surface, then Glenn must have hidden _something_ , somewhere. The man wasn’t exactly meticulous about keeping notes or records or marking his calendar, but his memory wasn’t good enough to rely solely on his head to keep track of everything, either.

—

The sound of the front door opening downstairs causes Felix to freeze. Had he been so focused he didn’t hear the gate or the car? What the hell was Rodrigue doing coming back? Likely just forgot something in his office, if he had to guess. So he doesn’t move yet. The office is downstairs anyway, just wait for him to leave again.

No such luck. Rapid footsteps ascend the hardwood stairs, but they aren’t his father’s gait. He knows it too well from years of avoiding being caught playing ‘age-inappropriate’ games as a child or hang out in Glenn’s room after they watched some scary movie they weren’t supposed to see. It was slow and steady and had the distinct _click_ of expensive wooden-heeled loafers that he wore around the house at all hours for some reason.

These steps were lighter, quicker…energetic paces that seemed to jump from stair to stair in leather-soled, short boots. A different familiar stride Felix knows all too well. Exhaling as he rolls his eyes, Felix storms out of Glenn’s room just in time to see a familiar face surface at the end of the hall.

“Sylvain, what the _fuck,_ _”_ he huffs. “You can’t just sneak into my damn house like that!” Wiry fingers run back over his forehead and through his hair as he breathes a frustrated sigh of relief.

The redhead stands there, hands up defensively, but it’s short-lived. Within a moment the usual smile is back on his face as he saunters over. Too-big hands shove themselves into too-small pockets of his too-tight jeans, a shrug of his shoulders showing just how much he doesn’t care about the startle he caused. “Didn’t think it was _sneaking_ since you gave me a set of spare keys, but sure. I _snuck_ in.”

Felix rolls his eyes, pushing back into Glenn’s room. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Only in his peripherals can he see his friend’s face pop in through the doorway like some kind of cartoon. “Well, when Mr. Felix ‘I’ve never missed a day of work in my life’ Fraldarius decides to call in one day, I thought I’d check in. Surprised your old man didn’t think anything of it.”

He scoffs at that, skulking across the room to the bed. “He thinks I’m ‘ _finally taking the time to grieve_ ’, or some bullshit.” Though not one to _use_ air-quotes, they can certainly be heard in his tone of voice. Rather than try to unpack all that, he gives an impatient wave of his hand. “Wait, aren’t _you_ supposed to be at work right now?” Felix knows the schedule. He and Sylvain always worked at the track on the same days.

“I had Ingrid cover for me, she likes the extra hours and the extra money that comes with it.”

“Whatever. If you’re going to shove your nose in my business, at least make yourself useful and help me lift the mattress.”

Sylvain doesn’t protest, stepping into the room to help Felix lift the heavy, awkward rectangle up. Unfortunately, there’s nothing between it and the box springs whatsoever. If there had been, no doubt the police would have taken it. He lets go first, the mattress thudding back down as it slips through Sylvain’s unexpecting hands.

“So uh…what are we looking for anyway, Fe?”

“Not sure,” he remarks, lying down on his back before pushing his head and torso under the bed. Nothing there but a few strings of lint and dust. Nothing taped to the bottom of the bed frame. “I’ll know it when I see it.” He sees a tear, but that’s it.

A hand around his ankle pulls him back out, Felix’s hands gripping the frame as his shirt easily slides up from where it catches on the hardwood, Sylvain’s face coming into his field of view rather than the dingy underside of the bed. Felix is sure to greet him with a look of mild disdain, but Sylvain just quirks a brow.

“But you know there’s _something_ to be found?”

Felix snorts at that, derivative and impatient. “…No. But I still have to fucking _look_.” He holds out a hand, fingers flexing in indication. “Give me your phone. I need the flashlight.”

“Does your phone not have one?” It’s a sarcastic question, but Sylvain pulls his cell out of his back pocket and puts it in Felix’s outstretched palm anyway.

“Yeah. But it’s downstairs.” Pulling himself back under the bed, he taps the icon for the torch, illuminating the dim underbelly of the bed frame. A quick search around the edges reveals nothing of interest, nothing propped up in the hollow nooks or crannies, but as he turns the phone to point at another angle, a shadow catches his eye, just to his right. Felix slides over, shining the light directly on the shadow to see that it’s near the tear in the box spring that he’d noticed before, and the silhouette is rectangular in shape.

“…the fuck?” It’s a rhetorical murmur to himself, one he utters as he’s already slipping one hand through the rip in the fabric into the hollow box above him. Between the rows of metal wires, he finds two objects stacked on one another. Dragging them out, he readies his feet to drag him back out, but Sylvain catches on and needlessly pulls on his ankle once again. If Felix wasn’t preoccupied with what he’d found, he might have had a snarky comment. Instead, he’s too busy staring at the small nondescript journal and handheld tablet he’d pulled out of the bed.

“Oh, damn…you actually found something.”

“Maybe,” Felix huffs. “It could be something else.”

“Like porn?”

“NO! Not _porn_.”

“It’s porn.”

“It is _not_ porn.”

“Oh come on Felix, you think your brother doesn’t look at porn?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well then, if you’re so sure, go ahead. Check it.”

“…I hate you so fucking much.” He doesn’t, of course. But Sylvain always had to make things difficult. Now all Felix can think is how fucking _pissed_ he’s going to be if it for some reason _was_ porn. Partly because he doesn’t want to give Sylvain the satisfaction of being _right_.

But, it would also mean he’s back to square one.

“If it’s porn, I’m going to punch you,” is all he says, covering up the anxiety that he’s starting to feel knowing this might not be the clue he was hoping for. He sits up, leaning back against the bed behind him as he examines his find. A push of the power button boots up the tablet, and as the OS loads, he turns his attention to the notebook, quickly flipping through the pages. At first glance, it appears empty, until he notices a dog-eared page somewhere in the middle. After that, there are various pages of random shapes, with words scattered about, lines pointing to varying sections of the single-line blobs and squiggles. Upon noticing names such as “Kleiman rd E” and “Gronder hwy N”, he realized they were race circuits. This wasn’t particularly surprising, considering Felix was already aware of his past time of street racing. However, Glenn had very strictly guarded the details around it, even around his brother (who was the only one he’d told about it at all). Sylvain had only found out from Felix after his disappearance. Flipping back to the dog-eared page, he sees a few lines of text in Glenn’s messy handwriting.

_H.G. - 287-310-9930_

  
  


_MCUS://eventhub.net_

  
  


_Knight_

_8E37!a954$6p_

  
  


“H.G…This is a phone number.”

“Hot girl?” Sylvain pauses a moment, index finger tapping at his chin in thought. “Or hot guy.”

Felix gives a less than subtle kick to the man’s shin, but ignores it. “I’m calling it.”

“Do you even know what you’re going to say?”

Once more, Felix ignores him, holding up a finger as an indication for the other to be quiet as he dials the number. He dials and hits send, but the phone doesn’t ring. Immediately, it goes to voicemail.

  
  


_\- Hey, you_ _’ve reached the voicemail box of Holst Goneril. I’m busy at the moment, but leave a message and I’ll call back. If you’re inquiring about the shop, you can reach me at Goneril Custom’s business number of 287-2020-5533 -_

  
  


“Holst Goneril…” He mutters to himself, writing down the phone number as Sylvain takes his cell phone back. “Who the hell is Holst? I’ve never heard Glenn mention him before.”

“Dunno,” Sylvain says with a shrug as he types something into the phone. “Sounds familiar though, can’t pinpoint where I’ve heard it, though. What’s the number you’re writing down?”

“Goneril Customs. He has a shop. Must be the guy who works on Glenn’s car if I had to guess. He certainly doesn’t bring his racing car to Rodrigue’s mechanic for modifications or repairs.”

Sylvain is still typing in his phone, scrolling through something much to Felix’s annoyance. This was important, who is he texting? “Makes sense to me.”

Felix extends a hand again for Sylvain’s phone, “I’m going to call the shop.”

“Hang on.”

“ _Why?_ If his name’s in here, maybe he knows something about what happened to Glenn.”

“Might wanna hold off on that,” Sylvain says with a downward tilt of his lips. Flipping the phone around so Felix could see the screen, he lowers it into his field of view.

It’s a news article dated last month. In the top left is an image of a man in his late twenties with pink spiked hair and gold eyes. A quick glance through the column reveals that he, too, has gone missing, just two months after Glenn.

“What the fuck? Why is everyone just _disappearing?_ _”_

Sylvain shrugs, pocketing his phone once more. “Not sure, but the missing persons reports have definitely gone up this year from what I’ve heard.” There’s a beat of silence as Felix begins to mess with the tablet instead. “Wonder if his shop is by that antique shop from the voicemail Glenn left you.”

Felix scoffs and shakes his head as he pulls up the browser, but already he can tell there have been modifications to this tablet. It’s running on its own data rather than the home WiFi, and it’s stripped of all extraneous applications. “What, Nana’s Antiques? Hell if I know. All I know is the police scoured that place up and down and didn’t find a damn clue. And then afterward I did the same and didn’t find anything. If he went missing there or was ever there, I didn’t see any evidence of it. And the shop itself is basically a glorified shed. There’s nothing to hide there.” The browser loads up to the very website listed on the notebook, though Felix has never seen a protocol of MCUS:// before. “This is some sort of private web network.”

Sylvain takes a seat on the floor next to Felix, leaning in to get a look himself. “Huh. I’ll be damned. That’s pretty intense for a street racing ring.”

“No kidding.” He just nods and hums in agreement, but every link he clicks on requires login credentials to proceed. Pulling out the notebook in, he types in the rather obvious username and password into the fields. It’s a good thing Glenn had chosen such a good hiding spot, since aside from that he left everything else rather obvious. The man had always been good with his initial strategies, but he’d never been good about taking the time to make backup plans.

Within moments, he’s able to access every bit of the website. Glenn’s profile, upcoming events, local and country-wide, warnings and announcements regarding police activity, varying “tracks” in the city streets, speed traps, locations of toll booths, and how you can avoid having to pay.

It’s at that moment that an idea crawls its way into his mind. The ‘acceptable’ solution would be to show his father this, who would then inform the police, who would then look into the new leads.

And then possibly risk them writing it off as just another criminal getting himself into trouble he can’t get out of. Felix may not know all the reasons behind Glenn’s decision to do this, but he knows his brother isn’t a _criminal_ , even if this hobby of his isn’t exactly legal. Felix won’t risk that happening and losing the only trail to finding his brother.

“I’m gonna find him.”

“…Wait, what? How?”

Felix points at the screen, indicating the limited history listed in Glenn’s profile. “Status of Blacklist 2…whatever that means. But it shows the date of his last race.”

The day Felix got that voicemail. “Then his status changes to ‘unlisted’. Wherever he went, it has to be related to whatever caused him to go unlisted.”

“Shit,” Sylvain curses, leaning in for a closer look. “Yeah, hard to write that off as coincidence. So…what now?”

Felix flips back to the events page, indicating the upcoming races list. The short nail of his index finger taps at the screen for the next open race with a cash prize, listed to happen that upcoming Friday in the Adrestia district.

“I’m going to that race. And I’m going to see if I can find someone who has some answers.”

  
  


Considering he only had two days to prepare—and frankly, had no idea what to prepare _for_ , since the private web network didn’t have any sort of ‘guidelines’—Felix spends more time trying to figure out how to feel out for suspicious figures or what to ask if he finds anyone that catches his eye.

And, figuring out how to make sure his _father_ doesn’t find out what he’s doing. He hates calling in favors to Sylvain and Ingrid, but there’s not much else he can do. _Especially_ Ingrid. Because the hard part wasn’t getting her to listen or help him, the hard part was getting her to _not_ go to law enforcement.

—

 _“…Are you sure about this, Felix?”_ _The expression on her face as she stares at him from across the tiny break room table reeks of concern, but there_ _’s a hint of pity in her gaze that makes his stomach turn._

 _“_ _**Yes** _ _, I_ _’m sure. It’s been three months, Ingrid. The cops are looking for a rich boy with a huge inheritance, not a man who races in illegal street circuits. If they find out they’re looking for the latter, then even if they_ _**do** _ _find him, they_ _’ll just put him in jail.”_

 _She sighs, shaking her head as she stares down at her mid-afternoon coffee. Despite being childhood friends, this was not a part of his life that Glenn had ever revealed to her._ _“I get where you’re coming from, Felix. But that doesn’t mean I like it.” There’s a stern look on her face, lips pulled into a firm line. “That’s a world none of us are familiar with. What if you go missing, too?”_

 _His teeth dig into the inside of his lip, trying to bite back a retort. She has a point, he can_ _’t deny that. But he can’t let that deter him, either. “I won’t let it happen. But that’s why I need you and Sylvain to have my back on this. Rodrigue can’t know, and I can’t rely on Dimitri anymore.” Not since the accident six months ago that had killed his parents. As much as he understands the man’s need to grieve, it didn’t seem like that was what he was doing. Sorrow had far too quickly morphed into anger, and that stage was still going strong half a year later. He’d even quit his job at the track, leaving the ownership of the Areadbhar in the hands of his uncle._

 _Ingrid hesitates, but ultimately nods as she breathes a heavy exhale._ _“Alright. I’ll help any way I can.” Pointing a finger at him across the table she adds, “But that means if you need my help, you_ _**call** _ _me. Don_ _’t wait until it’s too late. If you ask for my willingness to help you in this endeavor, I expect you to collect at some point. Don’t try to do this alone.” She extends a hand for him, “Deal?”_

 _Felix nods, firmly grasping her hand in his own,_ _“Deal.”_

—

By the time Friday came around, Felix had already driven out of the house at the time he usually did, in the car he usually drove for the short commute. But rather than leaving the neighborhood altogether, he drives back into a L-shaped cul-de-sac, ensuring that he’s obscured entirely by trees and massive houses. This, unfortunately, means he can’t see his father leave for work either. Instead, he has to wait for the signal from Sylvain, who’s standing watch at the neighborhood entrance by the main road to let him know when Rodrigue leaves, and if he for any reason turns back.

It feels like he’s waiting forever. The sooner he can get in and out, the better. Right now Ingrid is trying to cover for both of them down at the track. Once Felix is out of the neighborhood, Sylvain can head to work to relieve half of her responsibilities while Felix can head down to Adrestia.

Right now, however, he sits there impatiently, lit cigarette between his fingers a familiar yet poor attempt to ease the building tension in his shoulders. To kill the time and distract his mind from the absolute idleness he waits in now. Between drags, he hangs it out the window, trying not to coat his clothes in the scent so that it won’t cling to the seats of another vehicle when he switches.

Finally, his phone buzzes where it rests on his thigh.

[ <<< Sylvain - 9:12am ] The lion has left the den.

Felix rolls his eyes at the needless code, but shifts his car back into gear.

[ >>> Felix - 9:13am ] Heading back.

A thirty second drive gets him back in his own driveway, entering the keycode to open the door to the massive garage without tripping the alarm. He should only be gone a few hours, finished long before Rodrigue clocks out for the day. Parking his BMW back in its usual space, he walks across the white tile floor of the massive room that looks more like a museum than a storage unit.

Each side is lined with vehicles of varying cost, speed, design, lineage, decade, make…a second story led by ramps was lined with the more classic cars that were worth far more than they originally cost. Vintage pieces of art that Rodrigue prized and displayed for their history and old-school appeal. Touching them was out of the question.

Good thing Felix has no intention to. He needs something fast, something maneuverable, something built to show that he knows how to drive, and something that will hopefully draw attention that might lead him to the reason for Glenn’s disappearance. But not something that would be horribly missed by his father if something happened to it.

Pulling the correct set of keys from the lockbox and putting out his cigarette, Felix climbs into his pick: A bright green Lamborghini Huracan. Too bright for his taste, but it would suit the purpose. The engine roars to life with a heavy grumble that screams of speed and power. Felix doesn’t _plan_ to get into a race, but in case he needs to, he’s committed the planned racecourse to memory, a cheat sheet of the road names on notebook paper folded in his pocket to review should he need it.

Easing out of the drive, he makes sure the garage shuts behind him as he sets off. By the time he reaches the street, he peels out and heads down to the established location.

  
  


When he arrives, he’s immediately beginning to regret his decisions.

  
  


There are a few cars pulled into an overgrown lot, most of which are vehicles a few years old with underglow lights, racing stripes, and spoilers large enough to take off in an airfield. They weren’t subtle, but not in the same way as his own. There are a few people milling about, leaning on their own cars, smoking, talking, whatever. They’re all dressed in bold street fashions, a stark contrast to the monochrome athliesure Felix had donned.

He sticks out like a sore thumb. And he knows it. Even if he didn’t, it would have been clear by the way everyone in the area’s gaze turns to him. Brows quirk, mouths sneer, nostrils flare. It’s clear that he’s either not wanted, or they’re all waiting to chew him up and spit him out. Felix isn’t nervous. But there is a nagging worry in the back of his mind that already he’s blown his own cover.

Parking just off to the side Felix steps out of his car, examining the area. He doesn’t dare cause a further scene by approaching anyone first. Driver door open, he folds his arms and leans them over the top of the glass, chin on his arms as he blatantly observes with a bored grimace. He shows no sign of intimidation the others likely try to inflict.

He’s rewarded by a few looking away and returning to what they’re doing. It gives him the chance to truly scope out what he’s working with.

A group of three men converse among themselves, a heavy cloud of smoke billowing from the center of their circle like a chimney of flesh and designer denim. Two women seem to be talking to one another, shooting sharp glances his way with even sharper smiles before they look back to each other. There’s nothing subtle about their conversation even if he can’t hear it. There’s a woman off to the side in a comparatively understated teal, BMW 8-series. Short purple hair frames a dour face, aviator sunglasses hiding her eyes. The way she stares straight ahead, however, suggests that she’s observing the area as much as he is. There’s another man by his own vehicle, speaking to a woman wearing little more than a red bikini top and dark denim skirt that didn’t cover much more of her ass than the underwear she was wearing. She walks with an unnatural sway despite the heels on her boots, collecting a wad of cash from the man and stuffing it into a leather bag strapped around her bared hips.

The last person in the vicinity that he notices is a woman in the oldest car there. He can’t pinpoint the exact decade, but he knows the Mitsubishi Lancer Evo hasn’t been produced for a solid four years. The charcoal grey metallic paint and steel blue-painted rims seem to compliment the dark greyscale of her attire. She sits sideways in her driver’s seat, the door as wide open as her knees she leans down to rest her elbows on. Her gloved hands hover in between, one wrapped around her wrist as a pair of wraparound sunglasses dangle loosely from her fingers in the other. Flat-bottom combat boots rise above her ankles, opaque black tights riddled with tears and holes do a poor job of covering the pale skin of her legs. The angle she sits at obscures most of the rest of her outfit besides the fact she’s wearing a leather jacket. A flat bill cap with the logo of a metal band he recognizes sits just slightly off-kilter on her head, a few tendrils of mint green hair dangling around her jaw in front of her ears, the rest either pulled back or stuffed into the hat. Perhaps the reason he notices her the most is that she’s just _staring_ at him, wide green eyes eerily blank despite how fixated they were. He narrows his gaze at her, unsure what to make of it.

His attention is turned away from the green-eyed woman when the one who’d been collecting money from one of the assumed racers stops in front of him, perhaps a bit too pointedly with the way she tries to make her small breasts jiggle with the action. Felix lifts his gaze up to her face, one eyebrow cocked as she looked at him expectantly with her hand stretched out. “What?”

“You’re here to race, right?” she drawls, chewing on tobacco the way a schoolgirl might chew on gum. “Entry fee. Fifty bucks. You got it or not?”

He rolls his eyes. Ugh. Of course, there’s an entry fee. He supposes the cash prize has to come from _somewhere_. One of the blessings of having a rich father and a well-paying job is that he can actually afford to carry large amounts of cash on him. He huffs, reaching into his back pocket to fish out his wallet. “Yeah yeah, give me a sec.”

“Chop-chop, we’re starting in about 45 seconds with or without you.” She pulls out a small tablet, tapping at the screen with an oddly bored fury. “Racer alias?”

“What?”

“ _Racer alias?_ _”_ She just looks impatient now. “Look, I can tell you’re new but I didn’t think you’d be this unprepared.”

One of the men a few parking spots away must have overheard, cupping his hands around his mouth like a megaphone as he hollers over with the fervor of a drunk frat boy, “How about Lambor- _ **green-**_ i?” A cacophony of mocking laughter ring out from his comrades and the gossiping women to their left.

Felix’s glare deepens, glancing back over at the green-eyed woman who hasn’t even moved…or blinked, by the looks of it. Weird. Grunting, he’s just about to pull the cash out of his wallet when another man he hadn’t seen before jumps out of one of the cars, standing up on the sill of the door to lift his voice over the roof. “Blue incoming! _Scatter!_ _”_

In a blink, the girl in front of him dashes off, and every other person in the area jumps into their cars and starts them up. Rather than wait around for what can only be the police to show up while he ponders how they knew, Felix jumps into the Huracan and starts it up, peeling back out into the road and heading back the way he came.

  
  


Hands smack against the steering wheel in frustration as he curses to himself, hating that he didn’t even get a damn _chance_ to do any investigating. Not ready to give up just yet, he pulls off into an old vacant lot for what used to be Mach City Outlet Mall. Though long abandoned, it’s easy enough to pull in and hide out in the back until the coast is clear. Then he can go back to the site of the race and see if anyone else came back or if there was anything about the location he could scope out.

He pulls around behind the east wing, stepping out and slamming the door shut behind him. He grabs another cigarette from the box in his hooded jacket and the lighter from the other, lighting it up before taking a heavy draw. Sneakers kick at a loose shard of concrete and watch it skitter across the weeds that peek through cracks in the empty lot. Just wait it out…How long does he need to wait it out? He should probably text Sylvain to let him know about the turn of events.

Before he gets the chance, the sound of black market motors rips through the air, growing louder by the moment. Felix turns his gaze to see two cars from the race start point pull up, forming a half-circle around him in a very vulture-like manner before they come to a stop. Though the very maneuver reeks of hostility, Felix doesn’t dare sink back into his car or reach for his phone. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders squared and brows knit as he watches them. Two of the men from before step out, malicious grins on their faces…and as they slowly round their vehicles, he notices there are weapons in their hands. One has a rusted crowbar, the other a worn baseball bat. It’s a bit insulting, really. And that’s clear on his face as he looks at them rather bored, lowering his cigarette down by his side.

The first man taps the tip of the baseball bat on the ground, running his tongue along his bottom teeth in a grotesque manner. “Well well, looks like we got a stinger on our hands.”

“What?” Felix snorts, an incredulous yet irritated look crossing his face.

“Show up to the race, let all your little cop buddies know where you’re goin,” the other chimes in. “Pretend to be ‘one of us’ so we won’t know any better when the blue shows up.”

A dark chuckle lacking any mirth rumbles in Felix's throat, “You think I’m a fucking narc?” That was an outcome he certainly hadn’t expected. “You think cops get paid enough here to buy this shit?” A lazy gesture to his vehicle accompanies the logic. While he’s not afraid, he does know he can’t afford to be brash here. He’s trying to get into this underground ring, and that may involve winning some trust. But he also recognizes that while the weapons they wield aren’t knives or guns, Felix is both outnumbered _and_ unarmed. It would be wise to tread carefully.

“Feds can,” the first says. “Can’t wait to get my hands on the keys to it when we’re done with ya.”

Felix frowns, but before he can speak another word, _another_ engine rolls up. All eyes turn to the newcomer, but Felix already knows who it is when he sees the Mitsubishi emblem on the grill.

The Evo comes to a stop, door opening as the green-eyed woman steps out, those very eyes now concealed by the dark-lenses of her sunglasses. As the door shuts behind her, there’s a round of whistles from the armed racers in front of him. No doubt their lecherous eyes lingering on the abyss of cleavage pressed into the dark tube top beneath her open jacket. Felix, however, is more preoccupied with what else he sees: the hilt of a knife on the studded belt of her shorts, and the subtle ripple of muscle just beneath the surface of her bared stomach.

He doesn’t know who this woman is, if she’s here to help these men or him, but he can already tell by the way she carries herself she’s far more of a threat than the other two combined. So that’s where he keeps his silent gaze.

The others, however, seem to have forgotten him altogether for the moment. Whistles digressing into vulgar words and gestures. “Hey baby, you followin’ us? We were just about to fuck up this stinger if you wanna watch.” The first says.  
“Happy to fuck you up after~” the other chimes in, resulting in a rather vomit-inducing fist-bump between the two. Felix rolls his eyes, now questioning even _more_ what the _hell_ his brother was doing in this world.

The woman, however, is unfazed entirely. She comes to a stop just in front of them, within arms reach of the first man and Felix, but her expression hasn’t changed. The silence seems to confuse the others, but Felix finds himself intrigued.

“He’s not the stinger,” she tells them, voice cool and calm, but oddly cold. “Cops aren’t that obvious or they’d never get anywhere.”

Felix eyes her cautiously, wondering what the hell she’s doing stepping into his business like this. He doesn’t know her.

“So…” the second man adds as he gestures to her with the bat, “You the stinger then?” The first spits on the ground in reply, “We’ll just get ya _both_ outta the way.”

Felix spots the man with the crowbar going for a swing at her, and he lunges forward on instinct, but she moves faster. In a mind-blowing, swift motion, she turns to the side as her hand wraps around the metal bar, yanking it from his hand at the end of its momentum. All three men are dumbfounded for a moment, and it’s enough time for her to swing the flat end of the crowbar at her assailant, slamming it into his arm just below the shoulder hard enough that Felix can hear the crack. As the wounded man howls in pain and leans back, the second shouts a few profanities her way as he readies the swing of his bat. She lifts the metal in time to block.

Rather than stand there like a dumbfounded idiot and let her keep fighting him off, Felix takes advantage of the fact the man is focused on her. The effects of his crest activate, the scene unfolding before him nearly moving in slow motion as his perception goes into overdrive. Thankful he’d been smart enough to wear his driving gloves, he drops his cigarette and reels back his fist before throwing a hard punch into the man’s cheek. His timing an aim is immaculate, knocking the man out cold on the spot as he hits the ground.

Both of them downed in a matter of seconds, one is scrambling back as he clutches his shattered arm, the other is out cold on the concrete. The one still conscious finally scrambles to his feet, shouting back at them as he struggles to open his door, “You fuckers are crazy!” No honor among thieves and vagabonds it would seem, as he abandons his unconscious comrade and flees the scene.

Felix shakes out his hand, as if willing away the aftershocks of his own pain he’d felt from the blow. But thankfully he hadn’t broken any fingers. “I was handling it,” he tells the woman, not particularly thrilled about this sort of ‘first impression’ he now has in the street racing world.

“Doubtful,” she says, not even looking his way as she moves towards the unconscious man, tossing the crowbar aside as she kicks his bat away. “They were going to kill you.”

“Kill me? With those weapons? I’d think if that was their goal they’d have pulled a gun on me.”

“No. Most racers don’t use guns. It’s too expensive to get one without a registration or a paper trail. They’d be caught too quickly. Old crowbars and used bats and pieces of re-bar can be pulled out of any dump and they aren’t traceable.”

The flat tone she uses as she speaks, so matter-of-fact, is a bit unnerving. Even more so than her sound logic. “And you just know that for a fact?” he questions, crossing his arms over his chest.

It’s at this point she turns to look at him. He can’t see her eyes through her shades, but there’s a downward tug of her lips. “I’ve been in this ring for years. I’m guessing you just started?” The question is simply a disguise for her real answer. An answer of ‘I know what I’m talking about’, when he clearly doesn’t even know about entrance fees or racer aliases.

Fine, he’ll give her that.

“Now help me put him in his car.”

“What?”

“Just to get him out of the way,” she clarifies. Rather than waste more time asking, Felix moves forward and helps her stuff the man’s body back into his vehicle, before they shift it to neutral and push it down to the other side of the lot where it won’t be spotted past the overgrown foliage. By the time they get back to their cars, it dawns on him that perhaps this is a better outcome. He’d been focused on trying to buy the trust of two violent idiots, just to get a peek into this world. However, the woman is clearly a part of it…or a cop, but he doubts the latter. If she’s the former, however, she could prove to be a much better lead.

“So, if you’re not the stinger, who is?” he dares to ask.

The woman pulls off her sunglasses now, setting them on top of the bill of her cap. “Shamir Nevrand. Goes by ‘Arrow’. She was in the BMW.”

He opens his mouth to question how she knows that, but he doesn’t get the chance. In fact, Felix is rendered silent as she speaks again, her head tilted slightly to the side. “You’re the other Fraldarius brother.”

Felix steps back, immediately defensive. “You _are_ a cop,” he hisses, immediately pissed that he’d been caught out so quickly.

But the woman simply shakes her head. “No. My uncle is a detective. He works with Shamir, I’ve seen pictures of her in his photos and he tells lots of stories.” She nods her head towards the front of the Lamborghini. “And I hacked his database to put it on my phone so I can trace license plates.”

Aghast, he glares at her. “Okay, assuming all that is true… _Why?_ _”_

She gives a shrug, pulling her gloves off finger by finger. “To see if you were stupid enough not to use fake plates. Be glad I’m not a real cop or they’d already be calling your dad.”

Felix curses under his breath, glaring off to the side. He hadn’t even thought of that.

“-But also, to see if you were who I thought you were. Turns out I was right.”

“And what does it matter who I am.”

“Well, clearly you’re loaded, but you have no idea what you’re doing.” She puts her gloves into her jacket pocket before looping her thumbs through the belt loops on her shorts. “I’m looking for more business.”

“Business?” He’s clearly skeptical…and slightly offended, even if she’s not wrong.

“I’m a mechanic,” she clarifies. “I do customizations, mods, and repairs for sports cars…and specialize in street-grade racing modifications.”

He blinks, a sudden spark of hope threatening to ignite in his chest. “Do you work for Goneril Customs?”

The confused look on her face extinguishes that spark into dead ash. “Goneril? No, that’s too rich for my blood. I work at a family shop with my dad and brother. It doesn’t look like much, but our quality can’t be beat.”

“Is that so?” He doesn’t miss the fact that she’s _familiar_ with Goneril Customs. Though, any business would be aware of their competition. He files that away to the back of his mind. “So, what? You want my business? What makes you think I need a mechanic?”

There’s a slight quirk to her lips, perhaps brief amusement. “What I think you need is an advisor more than anything. But you’ll need that _and_ my handiwork if you want to get through the Blacklist.”

“The Blacklist?” He remembers something about that, he’d seen it in Glenn’s profile.

“My point exactly,” she says with a quick exhale. “You’re looking for your brother, aren’t you?”

On the defensive again, Felix says nothing. He doesn’t believe he can trust her with that information. Not yet.

Undeterred, she continues. “I can’t say I know what happened to him, though I wish I could. What I can tell you, is he’s not the first person to challenge the Blacklist and then go missing. And you’re not the first person to go _looking_ for those who disappeared. Holst went looking for him too. Now he’s vanished as well.”

These are all details that there’s no way she could know about his intentions unless she truly was a major player in the inner workings of the street racing ring in Mach City. He deliberates over it for a few moments, hesitant…but eventually decides that she may be his best bet in getting somewhere. “So, what…You want me to hire you, and in return, you’ll teach me about the ring and this Blacklist I need to beat? What’s in it for you?”

There’s a guarded half-smile on her face, lacking any real pleasantry. “My mechanical work is reasonable, but my guidance doesn’t come cheap. My reasons for needing the money are my business, however.” He can tell she won’t budge on that. He finds he doesn’t particularly _care_ what she needs the money for.

“What’s your name?” he asks. He assumes she already knows his.

“Byleth.” There’s no indication she intends to give her last name at this point, either.

Felix nods. That’s enough for now. He can take a gamble on her for now, and see where it gets him. It’s a better lead than anything else he’s found all day.

“Alright then, Byleth.” He removes one glove, recognizing her motions from before. Waiting for the others to be gone before she removed her sunglasses so he could see her eyes and removing her own gloves. Had she been suspicious of his identity since he’d pulled up? She hadn’t been wearing the sunglasses then, either. Extending his bared hand to her, he nods. “You have a deal.”

She puts her hand in his own, a strong grip as she gives it a single firm shake. “Deal.” When she removes it, he finds that she’s placed a piece of paper in his hands. He looks down to see that it’s a strip of notebook paper, roughly torn and folded up. On it written in pen is a set of initials and a number.

_B.E. 287-646-0092_

By the time he looks up, she’s already back at her car and opening the door. “Call me,” she shouts back to him before she steps in and shuts the door, then through the open window, she adds with a rather playful glint in her eyes as she pulls her sunglasses off her hat and the engine revs to life.

“If you don’t, I can find where you live.”


	2. Becoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tch. I’ll admit your points make sense…for street circuits . But I know for a fact you can’t beat me in a drag race. Not in that. No matter how good you are.”
> 
> She turns back to Felix. “Wanna bet?”

**|| Byleth ||**

The smell of rubber and gasoline fills her nose with the same familiarity as the bitter, early morning coffee drip and dad’s evening cigars on the back porch. Thick, harsh, and beloved by few. But these are comforting scents to Byleth, something she will always find more pleasant than the soft fragrances of lavender or honeyed tea.

Such things were more her brother’s speed, though that didn’t make him look any less the part of a mechanic with the smudge of black residue across his cheek or the baggy work overalls as he tunes the engine on a client’s Harley. Beleth was a fixer, a problem solver. He always had been. Any motorcycle brought into the Eisner family garage was a project he was willing to restore with all the care he would show his own bike. It was a trait he inherited from their mother, though their father was just as handy with a car. Repairs, restorations, maintenance. This was the family business, at least on the surface. That’s how it appeared to any average customer who walked in the front door of the unassuming shop-front on the small industrial strip near the airfield on the outskirts of town. They’re known for solid work at reasonable prices rather than a quick turnaround. After all, it’s just the two of them.

The back bay of the garage, however, is Byleth’s territory.

Old cars aren’t brought back there for an oil change or a belt replacement, no. In her domain, they undergo an identity change. From something as simple as window tinting and decals, to fully custom engine and suspension modifications. Her expertise is catered to a very specific sort of clientèle, and not kind you can blatantly advertise.

Street racing is far from legal, particularly in the motorist metropolis of Mach City. Everyone knows it’s there. That it happens. That there’s a whole underground of careers made in that seedy underbelly. But no one has been able to stop it, no matter how hard the MCPD may try to focus on doing just that.

Byleth slides out from under the old Toyota Celica, wheels of the creeper under her back squeaking from overuse and begging to be replaced. Oil and dirt coat her skin in blotchy patterns, a consequence of preferring to do her work in baggy cargo pants and a sports bra. The hard buzz of her phone on the aluminum workbench next to her has drawn her attention away from the suspension she’s modifying. Pulling off one thick glove, she reaches for her phone to find a text from an unknown number.

[??? - 10:23am] Hey. It’s Felix.

She rolls her eyes. _Can’t follow directions already._ She clicks the number on the message and dials. It must have caught him off guard since he didn’t answer for about three rings.

 _“Wh-“_ he barely gets a word out before she interrupts him. Though her tone is flat, there is a teasing undertone.

“Told you to _call_ me, Lamborgreeni.”

“ _….Why does it matter?”_

“I’ll tell you when you get here.” Flipping up the top of her paper-thin laptop, she tucks her phone into the crook of her shoulder to hold it to her cheek as she types his phone number into one of the installed programs. “You should be getting a text from a 5-digit number with a really sketchy looking link claiming it will connect you to hot singles in your area. Click on it.”

_“You can’t be serious.”_

“Dead serious. The link will pull up an encrypted GPS navigation to get you here.”

_“Why don’t you just tell me the address like a normal person?”_

She lets out a huff. “And you were accusing _me_ of acting like a cop. Same reason why illegal weed dealers don’t give you the address of the grow operation. Now click the scary link. The only hot single it’s going to connect you with is me.”

She hears an annoyed grunt on the other end, but no further protests. After a moment, he speaks again. _“Alright, I have it up. What, you want me to come now?”_

“Ideally. Otherwise we’re just going to have to do this all over again when you’re free. When you get here, you’ll see a garage called ‘Garage’. Don’t pull in the front. Follow the GPS indicator line to the next street to pull around to the back bay. I’ll meet you there.”

_“…Fine. Anything else?”_

“Yeah. Bring whatever you have of your brother’s that told you how to get to that race.”

Not giving him a chance to ask any more questions before he gets here, Byleth hangs up the phone. She knows where the Fraldarius estate is. It’s about 15 minutes away.

She wagers he’ll be here in ten. That’s enough time to take a break.

Tossing both gloves aside onto the work bench, she closes the laptop and shoves her phone into her back pocket as she strides across the room to the wall of sheet metal. Crouching at the knees, her fingers slip under the handle near the floor and lift, the sound of rolling steel echoing off the walls as it rises. On the other side is another garage, a bit larger with a few more vehicles stationed about.

Her brother looks up from the bike he’s working on, dark azure hair matted to the back of his neck and steel blue eyes betraying the warmth his stoic face does so well to conceal. He gives a casual wave, wrench still in hand, before going back to what he’s doing. At the same time, their father steps out from around the obnoxiously large pick-up truck that’s clearly been a little _too_ off road. Wiping the grease off his hands with a towel, he turns his attention to her.

“Hey, kiddo. Need something?”

“No. Just giving you a heads up. I have a new client coming in about ten minutes so I’ll have the bay door locked.” Though operating under the same roof and business as her family, she finds it best to treat the businesses separately.

The fewer details they know, the less likely they are to get stirred up into trouble on the front-end of the garage.

Still, despite Byleth’s knack for handling that side of things on her own, Jeralt isn’t immune from developing worry-lines around his eyes and forehead. “Alright. Got your phone?”

“Yup.” She taps her back pocket.

“Gun?”

“Under the workbench.”

“Knife?”

A pat at the side of her tool belt. “Ready and waiting.”

It’s enough to put him at ease. “Good,” he nods. “I’m sure you can handle it, but if anything goes wrong, you know what to do.”

Byleth nods. Indeed, she does. She’s dealt with a few clients who weren’t too keen on paying or thought they could get a little more ‘money’s worth’ out of her in the past. The downside of dealing with the illegal side of business is that many of your customers aren’t always the most upstanding of people.

“I’m not too worried about this one. He’s as green as they come. More likely, I’m going to have to teach him how to not get killed rather than have to kill him myself.” Brushing her hands together she turns to head back to her section, calling back to her father on the way. “If Alm calls the main shop about his Celica again, tell him it’ll be another day. The suspension’s jacked to hell.”

Turning around past the threshold, she reaches up for the handle of the garage door again, looking over at her brother who has a rather large black streak across his cheek under the eye from the motorcycle engine he’s working on. “Hey, Bel. You look like you got in a fight. Got a little somethin’ on your face.”

Her brother looks back at her, eerily similar features almost mirroring her expression. Including her shallow smirk as he wipes at the skin to remove the blemish…with just his extended middle finger. “Did I get it?”

Byleth chuckles. Smart ass. Rather than deign him with a response, she pulls the door back down and latches it shut.

* * *

She leans back against the wall outside, the concrete jungle around her a bit of a maze with all the empty storefronts and retaining walls. One foot propped up against the brick behind her, she takes another drag of her cigarette as she waits. The sound of the engine reaches her before he’s in sight, and Byleth squints, because it sounds like more than 8 cylinders.

And sure enough, in pulls that bright green Lamborghini Huracan that had earned him such a mockery of a nickname among the racers. She didn’t think to tell him to bring a _different_ car, but she’d hoped maybe he would have known better.

Cigarette between her fingers, she pulls it from her lips and snuffs it in the ashtray to her left. Smoke pours out with the breath she sighs, knowing she has her work cut out for her with this one. But it’s too late now. Smacking the button near her shoulder with the back of her fist, the garage door to the rear bay begins to open. Ducking under, she motions for him to follow her inside.

Felix pulls in, steering the car where she guides until she motions for him to stop. The echo of the motor rang loud across the walls, almost unbearably so to those who weren’t used to it. She makes a slicing motion across her neck and he kills the engine.

In the newfound silence, Byleth heads back to the garage door and hits the button for it to shut. When he steps out of the car, he’s already spouting questions before the door hits the ground.

“So what the hell is the Blacklist? And how do I find them?”

A wave of her hand as she returns to her workbench, taking a seat on the scratched metal surface before she turns her attention to him. “We’ll get there. First, _I_ have questions before I can know how to help you.”

He watches her with those flame-colored eyes, scrutinizing and suspicious as ever, but his glare eventually relents. “…What do you need to know?”

“Firstly, I need to know how you even found out about that race.”

She remembers all too clearly how much he’d stuck out like a sore thumb. It was a small match, just a group of middle-of-the-run racers looking for a quick buck and a dose of adrenaline. It was easy to spot a rookie, particularly one who didn’t know what he was doing. And nobody in their right mind shows up in a brand new Lamborghini.

Only Blacklisters dared to bring in modified supercars, and only some of them at that. It’s a lot to put at risk on a dangerous urban track when your vehicle can cost upwards of a quarter-million dollars…before you’ve even customized it.

By the time she’s finished her thought, Felix has pulled a tablet out of his passenger seat. He hands it to her, immediately crossing his arms over his chest when she takes it.

“I found it…hidden in my brother’s room. It has an app on it that goes to some secure site. His login was in a notebook with it.”

Byleth resists the urge to shake her head at that. You can’t just keep important passwords on a sticky note by your computer. That’s basic internet security 101. But if the cops hadn’t found this before his brother, Glenn must have hidden it well enough to make up for it.

A few taps and strokes of her fingers open up that exact application to see the session is still logged in. “Mach City Underground Secure,” she tells him. At his quizzical look, she elaborates. “That’s what the MCUS in the URL stands for. It’s a private network we use in the street racing world to organize without the cops catching on too quickly. Getting it on a device is almost impossible if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

“…Seems excessive for an illegal racing ring.”

“Not really, considering if we posted this on any publicly accessed site we’d all be arrested within hours. We go to great lengths to cover our tracks, especially since the MCPD has been looking to crack down on us.”

“Like your little phony dating service text?”

“Yup. That link expires after an hour and scrambles to an unreachable destination so that it can’t be traced to our location later. And on your phone, it just looks like you either got a spam text or you’re a very desperate man, which keeps me off the radar if the cops start sniffing you out.”

“…That's why you didn’t want me to text you?”

“Right again. If you call me, they can check phone signal records to know we spoke, but they won’t know what about.”

Prickly though he may be, he seems to accept the explanations. His gaze wanders around the area, as if studying the garage to get an idea of what to expect of her. Meanwhile, her gaze moves over him.

He’s not particularly tall, about the same height as her brother, but the blank t-shirt he’s wearing gives her a clear view of the musculature of his arms and torso. Clearly he works out. She grants herself an extra once-over purely for her own enjoyment. The sharp angle of his jaw and set of his eyes could easily intimidate in the right scenario and seduce in another, if he had the patience for that kind of thing. She gets the feeling he’s not much of a flirt. For someone born with a silver spoon in his mouth, however, she can tell he’s far from straight-laced. Long dark hair is piled into a rather messy bun at the back of his skull, and a number of piercings run through his features. Two in each lobe, a double helix in his left ear. When he opens his mouth to speak again, she notices the glint of a silver stud at the center of his tongue as well.

“Alright, so on that site, I checked his account. There’s a status section that says he went from Blacklist 2 to Unlisted. What does that mean?”

She pulls up exactly that part of Glenn’s profile, even though she already knows the answer. “It means he got on the Blacklist and worked his way up to being #2 in the rankings…and then he lost.”

“How? What happens when you lose?” Clearly he’s impatient about this.

A deep inhale, then exhale. There’s so much she has to teach this guy, and she can’t tell if he’s going to listen and retain it or just glean bits and pieces of it that he thinks are enough to run out and get himself into trouble.

“The Blacklist are the most notorious racers in Mach City, 15 of them ranked by wins. They have the highest earnings and standing as a group, and an anonymous financial backer. Races hosted by Blacklisters have a much higher payout than most others, so it attracts a lot of attention, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

“You can’t get on the Blacklist unless you beat them in a one-on-one race of their choice, and you can’t even challenge them without enough reputation, because they won’t accept just anyone. Even then, you can only challenge #15. If you lose, they get your car. If you win? You take their place as Blacklist rank 15. Then you can work your way up the list.”

Felix is silent for a few moments, clearly going over this information in his mind. “So that means he almost got to the top position…” A groan of frustration rumbles in the back of his throat as he runs his fingers up through his bangs as he mutters to himself. “What the hell did you get yourself into, Glenn…” Dropping his hand back down, he gives her a stern look. “You’re a racer. Have you challenged the Blacklist?”

Byleth scoffs. “No.”

“Why, not good enough?”

Her gaze narrows slightly. “ _No_ . Not _stupid_ enough.” Before he can question, she elaborates. “I make plenty of money winning races against everyone else. I have the rep to challenge them. But I don’t. Because I don’t trust any organization that’s run and funded by an anonymous head.”

A thoughtful look crosses his face, an odd addition to the seemingly permanent scowl. “So you think the Blacklist is the reason he disappeared?”

“I do.” Byleth opens her laptop and starts typing in a few commands. “As I said, he’s not the first person to go missing. Everyone who has disappeared has been involved in the Blacklist or connected to them somehow.” Without looking away from the laptop screen, she holds out her up-raised palm. “Phone.”

He hesitates, but doesn’t question it. A moment later she feels the cold polycarbonate in her hand. It’s then that he speaks. “I have to get involved. I _have_ to find my brother.”

She glances at him, but goes right back to plugging his phone into the USB. “Still stupid. But understandable. I’d do the same for my brother.” A few more clicks and she sets it down. A small download window pops up on her laptop screen that looks like something straight out of 2005.

He glances at the phone, skeptical, but says nothing. “If you’re not in the Blacklist, how are you supposed to ‘ _advise_ ’ me on what to do?”

Byleth just shrugs, unbothered by his criticism. “Anyone who’s been in the game long enough knows the relevant details. You just don’t because you’re new. It’s not really a big secret. Without a contact, your chances of finding out what you need to without getting yourself into more trouble are slim.” Her gaze flits from the download progress bar to him and then back.

“So you just go around scouting out new racers and reeling them into being your customers?”

“Yup.” A final click on the laptop. “I can’t exactly put up commercials on channel 8, so I have to go find clients on my own.” She looks at him again, a slight teasing glint in green eyes. “You should be glad. That’s why I followed you.” Not to mention helped him beat off his two would-be assailants.

He scoffs at that. “Creep.”

Byleth just smiles, amused. Unplugging his phone, she hands it back to him. “We’ll go over the details as we go, there’s a lot to cover. I’ve installed the same app on your phone that was on your brother’s tablet, and another you’ll use for calling and texting me or anyone else in the ring about racing, to keep it untraceable. We’ll need to work on your racer profile.”

Felix takes the phone, looking it over as she speaks. Sifting through the new applications, he doesn’t look at her for a moment, but he appears to be thinking back on something. “Like an alias?”

“That, as well as the car you’ll be driving.”

Orange eyes alone lift up from the screen, fingers stopping as he gives a vague gesture to the car behind him. “Done.”

She scoffs at that, struggling to hold in the chuckle she wants to give. “You can’t race in that. Not on the streets.”

He glares. “Is that _so_?”

“Yup?”

“ _Why?_ ”

Byleth begins to list off every reason by counting off on her fingers.

“One - you look like a ridiculous peacock and you don’t want that reputation.

Two - a Lamborghini is way too wide to be practical on inner city streets.

Three - I don’t mod super cars, and if you go stock you’ll get your ass handed to you.”

He just seems irritated at the last reason. “I came here for your advice, not mods. The Huracan goes from zero to sixty in 2.4 seconds and has a top speed of 202 miles an hour. I’ll smoke any of those Subarus and Hondas out there.”

“Spoken like a true track-racer,” she says, crossing one leg over the other as her palms rest back on the workbench. “You’ll never hit 202 on a street circuit, or even close to that. And any decent custom will smoke you in a drag race with that acceleration. You need a different car, and you need mods.”

Now he seems a little smug, though there’s still a trace of annoyance in his eyes. “Big talk coming from the girl driving a…what, 2015 Lancer Evo? The damn thing does four miles a gallon on premium gas and has disgusting turbo lag. Miracle you don’t run out of fuel mid-race.”

She smiles at that. At least he knows cars…as far as production goes. “2014,” she corrects. “And yes, it probably would, if I left it as it was when the factory produced it. That’s where customization comes in. I put more into it than a few decals and window tint.”

Something about the challenge in his eyes sparks her interest, as if he’s testing her. Bold of him, since he clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing.

In his defense, he doesn’t know that _she_ knows what she’s doing either. He didn’t get the chance to see her drive.

“What, like the launch control so you don’t fishtail the first half mile?”

Byleth doesn’t show even a hint of intimidation. “Among other things.”

“Tch.” Despite the scoff, the hint of a smirk on his face suggests he’s more interested than he is disbelieving. “I’ll admit your points make sense…for street circuits . But I know for a _fact_ you can’t beat me in a drag race. Not in _that_. No matter how good you are.”

She grabs her keys and hops down from her workbench without a word, moving towards the other garage door at the back. Unlocking the padlock, she lifts the steel gate up to reveal a narrow, yet rather long gravel road. At the end, clearly visible due to the wide open space, is a long expanse of concrete.

A runway.

She turns back to Felix. “Wanna _bet_ _?”_

* * *

Galatea Airport wasn’t quite what it used to be. It can still be seen on the near horizon, but due to the traffic slowing down, the outermost airstrips were no longer in use. It’s cracked in places, overgrown with weeds walling the edges and creeping through where the surface is most worn. But it’s perfect for what Byleth needs to test her modifications.

Or, in this instance, leave Felix Fraldarius in her dust so she can show him her skill as both a mechanic and a driver.

There’s no light or flagger to indicate when they should go, so after making sure the dashboard clocks are synched to the exact second, they prepare for launch at exactly 11:20am. Sunglasses on, she glances to the right to see that he’s at the ready, entirely focused as they spin their tires in place to warm them up.

Less than one minute left.

Byleth holds down the traction control button to activate launch control, switching the drive mode into super sport. Left foot presses down on the brake and she throws the gear shift into drive, prepping to go. She can hear the shift of the Lamborghini next to her for now, knowing he’s doing much the same. Ready to go, her eyes stare down at the clock.

It flips to 11:20.

Right foot slams on the gas, and a moment later the other releases the brake as tires screech and engine roars. The car _lurches_ forward, and she doesn’t even spare her opponent a glance. The engine throws her down the runway at insane speed, at an acceleration most racers only dream of having. Her gear changes are expertly timed and smooth as possible, the motion second nature to her by now. Despite the worn road, her slingshot down the line is straight and true.

She doesn’t need to look to see if she’s beating Felix. She knows she is. But a quick glance into her rear view mirror while halfway down the runway reveals he’s already shrinking in the reflection.

The look on his face was priceless.

It’s over in seconds.

He’s only a few breaths behind her, but in a drag race, he might as well have been miles behind. Calmly, she shuts off her engine and steps out by the time he’s pulling up. The nose of his car is barely over the finish line before he’s brought it to a screeching halt, throwing the door open and practically jumping out of his seat. Storming around the front of his vehicle, he stares her down.

“How in the _fuck_ did you do that?!”

Hands shoved in her pockets, she just gives him a shrug. “Good car and better driving.”

Still, he seems dumbfounded. “Glenn apparently made it to Blacklist rank 2 and he drove a Nissan GTR. If he can make it that far in a supercar-“

“A _modded_ super car,” she clarifies as she moves to the driver side door of her Evo to pop the hood. “Holst runs Goneril Customs. He does the same thing I do, but he’s a little more high-end. He will mod super cars. I will not.”

“Then why would I come to you instead?”

Moving to the hood, she flips the latch to lift it up, revealing her work beneath. She isn’t sure if he can even appreciate the inner machinations or not, but maybe if he sees that the equipment in there is _clearly_ not stock from six years ago, it’ll get through his head. “Because my work is still better.” A pause. “And Holst is missing.”

Though he doesn’t seem completely convinced just yet, it’s clear that he’s beginning to come around. Stepping forward, arms still crossed over his chest, he leans over to see for himself. As he does, Byleth allows herself to look over the tight muscle of his chest that peaks through the thin fabric of his shirt, the cut of his biceps along strong, lean arms.

He’s damn good looking, she’ll give him that. Hopefully he’s not a garbage driver.

When he’s satisfied with what he sees, he stands back up. His gaze is intense, but focused. Crystal clear with determination. “You _swear_ you can teach me how to get through the Blacklist? So that I can find my brother?”

She lazily makes a x-shaped crossing motion over her heart. “So long as you listen to me, yes.”

His lips twist in what seems like distaste, but he swallows it down. “Fine. What do I need to do?”

Satisfied, she gives a nod. “First? You need to bring me a reasonable car to work with.”

“Define reasonable.”

“Not a damn Lamborghini.”

“I figured _that_ much.”

“MSRP should be under $80k.”

His brows raise slightly at that, but not in a bad way. “That high, huh? Thought you were going to have me raiding a junkyard or something the way you talk.”

She huffs in amusement. “I’ve suped up a few junkers, but knowing what your house looks like, I figure you can bring me something better to work with. Especially since you’re on a time-crunch.”

There’s a moment where his mouth is agape, as if to comment on her spying where he lives. But he clenches his jaw shut, realizing she already knows far more about his background than he’d ever had to tell. Moving on, he seems to think for a moment. His eyes stare down to the side in thought as he weighs his options. It’s clear when he’s made up his mind. “BMW M2.”

“Perfect.”

“Alright, I’ll bring it tomorrow. What else?”

“We need to change your look.”

“…What?”

She anticipated she’d encounter some resistance to this. “If you want to be noticed by the Blacklist, you can’t just rely on winning a few races. You need a reputation. Athleisure is not going to give you the reputation you want.” She glances up at his face, realizing how much of his hair covers most of his piercings. “You’ll also need to cut your hair. After your less than stellar debut, we’re going to want to make sure that none of the people who saw you recognize you. The ‘Lamborgreeni’ racer needs to be either forgotten or thought to be someone else if you want to be taken seriously.”

He scowls at that, but there’s a sense of inner frustration in the way he glances down. Though seemingly reluctant, she doesn’t expect more push-back. Not since he’s doing this for his brother rather than himself.

She continues. “Your demeanor has an intimidating enough aura, but the rest of you needs to match up.” Gesturing to her own rather messy, casual attire, she shrugs. “Much as I’d love to race in something like this, it doesn’t work that way out on the streets. Driving is first, but image is second. You’ll need to come up with your racer alias as well.”

Finally he seems to move, having filed away everything she’s said. His hands loop into his pockets. “Alright. Car. Hair. Clothes. Name. Any other homework, _professor_?”

Perhaps he meant it as a mockery, but she takes it as an amusing joke. Her lip quirks up at that, before asking for his phone again. He hands it over and she pulls up the communication application. “You can get contact codes for other racers from the site, and yours will be uploaded once we get your profile set up, but for now…” She types in her own as well as her alias. “Meet me here. Same time tomorrow. But if you need to talk to me about any of this, contact me here.”

She hands the phone back to him, her contact name still pulled up on the screen.

 **_Demon_ ** **.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a good example of how that drag race looks, refer to this clip lol: https://youtu.be/b_c1H60zlW0?t=80
> 
> As always, feedback is always appreciated! This is about the length the chapters should be going forward lol, Chapter 1 was just a beast. So hopefully that helps me update quicker.
> 
> Also big thanks to Tricky for letting me know that I posted this on the wrong fic by mistake sldkfjs;l You're a lifesaver!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: none of the phone numbers / usernames / passwords / websites are real. They're just random things I created for storybuilding and the area codes are a spam area code that isn't used.
> 
> ANYHOO Let me know what you guys think! I'm really really excited for this one!  
> (I'm not stopping Azure Shadows I'm just gonna bounce between the two depending on my mood)
> 
> But as always, feedback is welcome!  
> And VERY appreciated, seeing as this is a very new and self-indulgent fic lol


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